


Two Point Zero Seven Percent

by Sunnyrea



Series: Team Machine [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 4x11, Episode Tag, F/F, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 04, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3143786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Mr. Reese?” John’s eyes flutter but do not quite open. “Mr. Reese, open your eyes if you can.” John’s head falls to the side. “Please!” Harold insists, pressing a bit harder with his suit jacket.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>John gasps and his eyes snap open. “Finch?”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Mr. Reese, do not close your eyes again. I need you to stay awake.”</i>
</p><p>[The team escaping from wall street and healing - episode tag]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Point Zero Seven Percent

**Author's Note:**

> After tag for the episode with Rinch in mind. It could be gen as well depending how you look at it. Spoilers for 4x11, of course.

Ms. Groves screams – Shaw is shot again – the door keeps closing – Harold and Fusco pull her hands free. Ms. Groves keeps screaming – Ms. Shaw falls to the ground – Harold and Fusco pull Ms. Groves back. Ms. Groves hits the metal floor still screaming beside John – The door closes – they hear a gunshot. 

And then the elevator starts to rise.

“Do we have a plan to get out of here once we’re up?” Fusco says, letting go of Ms. Groves and taking her gun from her – the only one left with any bullets, few as they may be. “Might be more of this psycho killer gang of yours.”

Harold glances at John on the floor, no blood on his shirt but Harold sees some on the floor. “John?” Harold says as he turns back to Ms. Groves. “Ms. Groves, you need to stand up.”

She only stares at the closed elevator doors.

“Come on, glasses,” Fusco says. “What’s our plan?”

“Mr. Reese, please stay awake,” Harold says, as he reaches under John and tries to find the wound, find somewhere to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. He turns his head back again, squeezing Ms. Groves’ arm. “Ms. Groves, please, we can’t stop yet.”

She does not reply. She keeps staring at the closed door, her body frozen from the moment the door closed. 

Harold feels something slick and wet on his hand under John but the angle is wrong with Ms. Groves in his other hand. He turns back to her. “Ms. Groves, we need to keep moving forward.”

She still does not move. Finally, Harold pulls his bloody hand away from John, reaches out, grabs her chin and turns it around to face him. “Root, I need you stand up right now.”

She blinks. “Harold?”

“We are not out of this situation yet, Root, and I know you do not want Ms. Shaw’s sacrifice to have been in vain if we get no further than this elevator.”

Ms. Groves breathes in sharply and heaves herself to her feet. She reaches into the back of her pants and pulls out yet another gun, sliding up alongside Fusco. Fusco looks at her and nods; no self-deprecating remark or nickname this time. She does not appear to even notice the blood now on her chin.

Harold turns back to John on the floor. “Mr. Reese?” Harold unbuttons John’s shirt and tries to turn John to the side enough to see the damage. “Talk to me, John, stay awake.”

“Finch…” John says weakly.

Harold pushes John up enough to look at the injury but he knows little about the differing severity of bullet wounds. John was shot in the back, the bullet did not hit Harold, there is no blood on John’s front, so it must still be inside. Harold keeps flashing back to when John was shot by his former CIA colleagues, reaching him in the parking garage, Detective Carter’s face when she saw him, rushing John on a gurney through the hospital lower levels. Harold puts both hands over the wound – stop the blood flow, it is what he can do now.

“Nearly there,” Fusco says.

“We need an exit,” Ms. Groves says to the air. 

Fusco turns his head and sees her not looking at him or Harold. “You’re going to have tell me who you’re talking to at some point.” 

Harold glances up, sees Ms. Groves’ head tilted to the side. Harold looks back down at John. His eyes are closed.

“John!” Harold snaps. John’s eye lids flutter open for just a moment before they close again. “Not good enough, Mr. Reese,” Harold insists. “I am sorry but I need you to stay awake just a bit longer.”

“Fin…” John starts and does not finish.

Harold breathes in sharply, bites his lip and presses down harder against John’s back. John groans quietly and Harold takes that as a good sign in this case. Pain means John is still conscious enough.

Then the elevator stops.

“Thank you,” Ms. Groves says quietly, head still tilted to the side.

Fusco looks at her again with a frown. Then the door starts to open.

“I can’t carry him alone!” Harold cries.

Fusco shoots a look at Ms. Groves – gun ready in her hand – then whips around and crouches down beside Harold and John. “Come on partner, can’t have you staining your good suit any more by lying around here.”

Harold laughs once in a surprised and panicked way. Then they pull John up to his feet, Fusco doing most of the work, and put John’s arms over their shoulders. Ms. Groves stands motionless for a moment in the elevator doorway, the gate fully open now. Then she puts her gun back into the back of her pants.

“Badges.” Ms. Groves snaps. “All of them.”

She pulls her access badge out then puts it over her head again as she steps out of the elevator turning to the right. Harold takes his access badge out and holds it in one hand.

“Not sure that will help as much as we need now,” Fusco says, motioning with his head to John slumped between them.

“We are taking the back way out,” Ms. Groves says as she walks – does not look back at them. “The building is still in lock down.”

John begins to sag in their grip. Harold tightens his hand around John’s wrist – keeps breathing calmly. “Not yet, Mr. Reese; We are nearly there.”

Ms. Groves leads them, turning down various corridors, just a level below the lobby but far enough up for Samaritan’s human operatives to not be following them. They stop at one door, Ms. Groves entering in a code on the keypad lock and then, with a green light change, they are through. She stops at the next door then suddenly pulls herself back against the wall.

“Wait.”

Harold and Fusco stop, pulling John as best they can close to the wall. The four of them stand silent for what feels like more seconds than John can spare.

“Ms. Groves, John does not have the time,” Harold hisses.

She holds up a hand, a person passes by the window of the door then disappears again. “Now.”

They head through the door, down a ramp and then are out in the parking garage.

“How’d you know my car was down here?” Fusco asks then shakes his head. “Never mind, wait there.”

Fusco lets John go suddenly as he rushes away so Harold nearly drops John onto the pavement. He staggers under John’s weight for a moment then Ms. Groves appears on John’s other side. She pushes herself up under his arm, holding him up again. Harold glances down, sees red starting to seep through John's shirt around John’s side then looks up at Ms. Groves again.

“Ms. Groves?” He says quietly.

She turns her face to him and there are wet lines down her cheeks. Then a car pulls up in front of them – nondescript, gray, obviously police owned – Fusco jumps out of the driver side and around the car. He helps Harold and Ms. Groves put John into the back seat. Harold slides in by John’s feet while the other two take their places in front.

“Drive, now!” Ms. Groves snaps.

Fusco’s foot hits the gas and they rock around the curve, up and out of the parking lot. Harold faintly hears the sounds of doors banging behind them but no one attempts to shoot out their tires as they drive away. Harold pushes John’s feet to the side, maneuvers himself forward. He pushes John gently but firmly until he is lying on his side so Harold can check the wound again.

“We need medical attention for John.” 

“And for you, cracker barrel,” Fusco quips to Ms. Groves.

Harold looks up at the front seats. “As soon as possible!” 

He turns back to John. “Mr. Reese?” Harold rotates awkwardly, pulls one arm out of his suit jacket then the other – it is an inadequate choice but the best option he has. “Mr. Reese!” Harold balls up his jacket and presses it into John’s wound.

The wound is high but John is still breathing without obvious difficulty so the bullet should not have hit his lungs. John is currently alive so the bullet is unlikely to have hit his heart.

“I have a doctor,” Harold says, “one who can help us and not ask –”

“She says he is still at the hospital. Turn right here.”

“What, that’s –”

“We need to stay on the shadow map.”

“Shadow –”

“Turn!” Ms. Groves snaps and Fusco spins the wheel.

John groans as the car careens around the curve and the two of them in the backseat knock against the front seats. Harold hisses as he is forced to lean on his bad leg. He plants his free hand on Ms. Groves’ seat and focuses on John.

“Mr. Reese?” John’s eyes flutter but do not quite open. “Mr. Reese, open your eyes if you can.” John’s head falls to the side. “Please!” Harold insists, pressing a bit harder with his suit jacket.

John gasps and his eyes snap open. “Finch?”

“Mr. Reese, do not close your eyes again. I need you to stay awake.”

“…out… we’re out…”

“Yes, Detective Fusco is driving and we are going to get you help.”

“Root, did she…”

“She’s here.”

“Shaw?”

Harold hears a small noise from Ms. Groves but Harold does not look away from John. “Just concentrate on staying awake, Mr. Reese, listen to my voice.” Harold feels blood on his fingertips against John’s back but the blood has not seeped through Harold’s jacket yet. “I believe you have been shot enough times to survive this one as well.”

John laughs in a weak way. “Is that… a joke, Finch?”

“I rarely joke, Mr. Reese, as you know.”

“Thought maybe this was a special time.”

“Maybe it is.”

John’s eyes shift as he tries to look up at Harold from the odd angle lying on his side. “Do you remember… remember the rooftop.” He coughs weakly. “Kara and the… the vest.”

Harold presses his lips together. “Yes, I remember.”

“I… I told you… told you not to come.”

“You could not have expected I would listen.”

John’s lips change into what would be a smile most of the time but now his energy level does not allow it to complete. “Guess I was… glad that time.”

“We all have our gifts.”

“You… you could have died.”

Harold looks away, looks at the suit jacket in his hand, at the blur of cars out of the window across from him. “But I did not die, Mr. Reese, nor did you, not then just as you will not die now.”

“You could have died,” John repeats and Harold knows John is not talking about the rooftop, not about the past.

“You…” Harold shakes his head once and breathes out slowly. “You jumped in front of a bullet.”

“I had to.”

“No,” Harold looks down at John again, his jaw tense. “You did not.”

“Yes…” John says and he suddenly grips Harold’s leg like that means something more, more than what he could voice and, yes, Harold supposes that it does.

“Here!” Ms. Groves says as they turn into a delivery entrance for the hospital.

The car stops, Fusco jumps out as does Ms. Groves, the car doors open on either side of Harold and John, Harold lets go of the jacket and grips John’s hand, grips John’s hands with both of his and John meets his eyes. “You are going to live.” Then Ms. Groves pulls at Harold’s shirt collar and Fusco pulls at John’s and they rush out of the car.

 

Hours later, Harold and Ms. Groves sit beside each other on a battered couch Shaw had dragged down into their subway hideout weeks before, ‘that cot you call a bed is worse than this.’ In front of them, John sleeps on the bed with fresh bandages wrapped around him, no bullet anywhere to be found and a good amount of antibiotics and pain killers in his system. Bear sits beside the bed, his head resting near John’s hand. Harold sits with his palms flat on his thighs. He washed them once but if he looked down he would still see traces of John’s blood. He does not look down. He looks at John breathing in and out, in and out, in and out.

“She’s alive, Harold.”

Harold turns to Ms. Groves. “Ms. Groves?”

“Sameen is alive.”

Harold pauses. “Did the Machine tell you that?”

Ms. Groves presses her lips together and tilts her head. “She doesn’t know but…” Ms. Groves turns and looks at Harold. “Even if there is a chance, and there is a chance Harold; if there is a chance then I will find her.” Her eyes shift just slightly and her expression tightens. “You owe me that much, just that much.” 

She stares off into the space beside Harold, until she frowns just a bit. Harold does not know if that means the Machine answered her or not. Then her eyes shift back onto Harold.

“Ms. Groves, what you said earlier, ‘what is the point of saving the world if we can’t enjoy it?’” 

She smiles a little. “I think that sounded more like something you would say.”

Harold nods once. “Perhaps, but…” Harold glances at John on the bed then back to Ms. Groves. “But that is not all; one could also say, what is the point of saving the world if we cannot protect the ones we love?”

Ms. Groves swallows slowly but does not look away.

“I think, Root…” She tilts her head. “I think if there is a chance for Ms. Shaw then we will take it.” 

Ms. Groves breathes out abruptly as if without Harold’s words there would not have been a real chance at all. She smiles in the way she does when she knows it could gain her something, when she does not really feel it but she has practiced it for so long, half real and all fabricated. It almost looks like she wants to hug him, to curl up and put her head on his lap as if she were his child. For a moment she looks like a lost girl from Texas.

Then suddenly she stands up. “Well, Harry, we all have to eat.”

“What?”

“I won’t be gone long, promise.”

“Ms. Groves –”

“You know, he was right.” She waves a hand at John. “You are the most important, Harold.” Harold frowns and Ms. Groves nods at him. “Maybe not to me, maybe not to the world – though I suspect someone could make that argument if they tried but you are the most important to Her. I know you trained Her to care, to help all people, and you said Her moral code, her rationality is different but…” Ms. Groves looks up at the ceiling as though the Machine was really sitting right above them, then she looks back down at Harold. “Despite how much She’s learned and how much you taught Her, I really don’t think She could survive if something happened to you; at least not as She is now.”

“I think you may over estimate Her, Ms. Groves.”

She shakes her head once. “You’ve never heard Her talk about you.” Ms. Groves smiles a little and her eyes tick to John for a moment. Then she looks at Harold again. “We all want to save the one we love in the end. Imagine that?” Then she turns and walks toward the stairs.

Harold watches her walk away until he can no longer see her. 

Bear whines quietly and Harold looks over at him. “I know, Bear.” 

Harold scoots his half of the couch so he is closer to the bed. He reaches out one hand to pet Bear’s head and touches John’s shoulder with the other. Bear shifts and sniffs John’s hand, licking it once. Harold pulls his hand back from Bear. He moves to pull his other hand away from John but stops with it raised in the air. He stares at John, his face less pale than earlier, still a touch of sweat on his hairline and wearing a hospital issue shirt – though he was never admitted and no camera could prove he was there. Harold lets his hand slowly fall again; he rubs his fingertips over the cheaply produced material, over John’s shoulder. Harold sighs, leans closer and runs his hand through John’s hair.

“You are going to live,” Harold says quietly.

Harold’s hand slips back to John’s shoulder and he rubs his other hand over his eyes under his glasses. He leans back, takes off his glasses with both hands and breathes out a slow breath. He thinks about Nathan and water and fire; he thinks about Grace alone in their house and a blind fold and a bridge; he thinks about John and too many gunshots too many times. Harold pulls his hand away from his eyes, puts his glasses back on then opens his eyes. John is looking at him.

“John.”

He smiles. “Hi, Harold.”

Harold thinks of a dry remark, something about ‘miraculous recovery,’ another about ‘who is the machine here,’ another about ‘taking one’s work too seriously.’ Instead he says, “I am very pleased you are all right.”

John glances down at the hospital shirt and up at the IV drip at the head of the bed. He looks back at Harold. “Depends on your definition of ‘all right,’ Finch.”

“You are alive,” Harold says quietly.

John’s expression changes to something less casually amused. His fingertips brush against Bear’s muzzle. He does not ask about Ms. Shaw.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold begins. “I know it is unlikely you will take this to heart but it is not your responsibility to save me.” John’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I know… I know you have in the past, you did again today; I know we have both helped each other and I understand your reasons, the value you see in me, but we are beyond that now. We will have to make sacrifices in this war.”

“Like Shaw?” John says and Harold grits his teeth together. John smiles again. “I don’t think so, Finch.”

“Mr. Reese –”

“Harold,” John interrupts. “We don’t have to make any sacrifices; what we have to do is to fight, is to save people because that’s what we do, our purpose, right? We will not be making any sacrifices. We will fight for all of us, for Root, for Shaw, for your Machine, for you too.” John shifts on his bed, winces, reaches out toward Harold. “Especially you.”

Harold meets him half way and grips John’s hand. “You can’t jump in front of every bullet.”

“Just the ones headed toward you.”

Harold sighs.

John smiles and squeezes Harold’s hand. “I know what you’re saying and I know that you’re telling me to stop saving you so that you can save me.” Harold opens his mouth slightly but closes it again without a retort. John is not wrong. “You said it yourself, Finch, we help each other.”

Harold shakes his head and puts his other hand over John’s. “It can’t last forever.”

“You never said it would.” Harold looks up again and John smiles with a pained edge to the expression. “In fact you said we’d both probably end up dead.”

Harold laughs with a small amount of humor. “True.”

“But Finch.” His thumb rubs a circle on the back of Harold’s hand. “Don’t ask me to stop saving you, because I never will.”

Harold smiles a little, traces a line on John’s hand and wishes just for numbers and simple things like child kidnapping or embezzlement. He pulls one hand away, rubs a line over his forehead and thinks about second chances, or third chances, or percentages growing smaller and smaller.

“Finch…”

Harold stands up, John’s hand still in his and leans over the bed. He kisses John on the forehead at his hairline. “Go to sleep.” Harold pulls back a little. “You will need to heal if you intend to continue saving me.” 

John smiles. “Always, Harold.”


End file.
